Of Mothers and Wire Hangers
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: Wilson scoffed, but it sounded more like he was amused than annoyed. “House, only you could make household chores feasibly dangerous.”


Of Mothers and Wire Hangers

"What is this?" House asked as he stepped into his room. Piles of folded laundry littered his bed, and only one cardboard box remained. Seeing as he was alone in his room, he rolled his eyes and shouted; "Wilson!"

A few moments later, Wilson walked casually into his room. They stared at the unlikely scene before them--House's laundry, perfectly folded, on his perfectly made mattress. House wasn't a messy guy, per se, but . . . actually, yes. He was pretty messy. He wasn't a slob, but he didn't really pick up after himself unless it was necessary. And sometimes, not even then.

Since they'd moved into the loft, House had been living out of boxes. He didn't really see the point of putting clothes away when his clothes didn't need to be ironed and he was just going to take them out of the closet anyway. All right, so maybe he saw the point, but mostly, he just didn't want to go through the trouble of putting away all of his clothes--simply because he ended up having more clothes than he thought he had. There were some shirts and pants he'd packed and brought over that he swore had randomly popped into existence because he couldn't remember ever buying or wearing them. And as for the strange occurrence of his bed actually being made, well, House didn't understand the point of making a bed. It served as a place to sleep, not for guests and tea parties. There was no point of smoothing everything out when its existence served to mess it up again.

"What's this?" House asked, gesturing at his clean room with a sweep of his hand.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but isn't this your room?"

"Where are all my boxes?"

"In the trash. They were ruined by the water and anyway, you shouldn't keep your clothes in boxes. That's why we have closets and dressers."

House glared at the clothes. "But what am I supposed to do with them?"

"Put them away, obviously. Your hangers are in that box." He pointed at the only box in the room, as if House wouldn't have figured out which one he was talking about.

It was clear that Wilson had thought he was being helpful. All right, so he was. Since Lucas had thought it funny to cause extensive water damage to their loft (which, House conceded, actually was pretty clever) they'd needed to dry out their mattresses (never had House been more grateful for Wilson's obsession with good hair) and they'd had to wash all of their clothes. House didn't understand why they needed to wash wet clothes, but Wilson had muttered something about mould, so he'd let him do whatever he wanted.

They'd spent most of their free time going down to the Laundromat and washing every piece of clothing they owned, and Wilson had had all of his suits dry-cleaned and pressed. For a clever little prank, it took days to fix everything. They'd had to buy a new flat screen. House had considered holding a funeral for the other one, but Wilson hadn't been willing to play along. That, and there wasn't really much he could say about the thing as they tossed it into the giant dumpster outside their complex. They'd hired someone to suck all the water out of carpet and make sure the wood floors hadn't been irreparably damaged. Once again, all Wilson had to do was mutter something about mould, and House didn't much care what he did. As long as he paid for it.

"What's the point of putting them away if I'm just going to wear them?"

Wilson just gave him that 'I'm really not in the mood today House' look and blinked slowly. Not that he blamed him, really. Wilson had been doing most of the cleaning (although House had done his fair share of mopping) but while he'd gone to work to mess with his team, Wilson had taken a day off to, apparently, throw away House's cardboard boxes and do and fold his laundry. He could have let House's clothes dry in the soggy, disgusting cardboard boxes and get all mouldy, but he hadn't. He'd even folded them and put them nicely on his bed.

"Why didn't you put them away?" House asked a moment later.

Wilson did an almost-cute sputtering thing. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but it was obvious the sweatshirt was old as were the pants, and his hair wasn't perfectly coifed like it usually was. Apparently, he'd been working hard, and House's question did not please him. "I'm not your mother," he finally said, sounding very frustrated indeed. "You can sleep on them, you can shove them onto the floor--I don't care. Just do what you want; you always do, anyway."

"You certainly starting to sound like her," House retaliated.

Wilson huffed, threw his hands in the air, and left. House stared at his ajar bedroom door for a few second, then sighed, intending to do just that. It was nice of Wilson to do his laundry and fold it, but House just didn't feel like putting his clothes away. Wilson was just in a snit because he felt guilty over buying the loft (even if he wouldn't admit it) and because House was unappreciative of all he'd done to clean House's room.

All in all, nothing new.

House took off his shoes and threw them in the open closet so that they landed on his haphazard heap of other shoes. Other than that, the closet looked eerily empty, and House knew his dresser probably did too. The only drawer that he'd bothered to fill had been his sock and underwear drawer.

He sifted through his clothes, trying to find his pyjama bottoms, and he thought of Wilson. He found himself often thinking of Wilson--ways to annoy him, ways to spend time with him, how funny it was when Wilson looked at him with total shock and blinked rapidly--but at the moment, he was just thinking of Wilson in general.

Wilson liked to keep things organized and clean. He wasn't obsessive about it or anything, but he had been more upset at the mess from Lucas' pranks than House had. In fact, he had the feeling Wilson was more upset at the entire pranking situation in general. Considering how often House went through his things and invaded his privacy, his life, his relationships, or whatever else he invaded, Wilson was still oddly obsessed with keeping his things his. He didn't like it when people got involved in his business. It was why Wilson didn't like House using his bathroom or his tub--it wasn't that he minded sharing _a_ bathroom so much as he minded sharing _his_ bathroom. A bathroom was a private place, home to embarrassing things like urination, defecation, and masturbation. So it made sense that Wilson would be upset at the fact that he not only had House bursting into everything at any given moment, but now he had Lucas (whose job it was to invite himself into people's private lives) doing the same.

That, and Lucas had done an excellent job of making Wilson feel guilty over buying the loft, which was idiotic in itself. Of course Lucas would go out of his way to make them pay for undercutting his girlfriend, but being her boyfriend meant that he was biased, and didn't see that she totally deserved it. Wilson didn't get vindictive unless someone really had it coming and Lucas just didn't understand that.

Not only that, but Wilson was oddly protective of House. Loosening the handrail and tripping him in the cafeteria had bothered Wilson more than was necessary--sure, House hit his cheek and yeah, it had hurt when Lucas had tripped him in the cafeteria full of people (he'd needed to soak in Wilson's bath extra long after that, and he pretended not to notice that Wilson had secured the grip bar despite not liking him using his tub) but Wilson had been furious. Oh, he hadn't said anything, but House knew. He knew, because he'd pursed his lips angrily every time House rubbed his thigh, and any time he was cleaning the mess Lucas had made, he had an evil glint in his eyes, as if he were planning revenge. Which he probably wouldn't do, but he could plan all he wanted.

He finally found his pyjamas and whipped off his shirt, tossing it in the corner he usually threw his dirty clothes. He slid into his undershirt and undid his pants, thinking that maybe he should shut his bedroom door before undressing. Oh well, it was too late now, and Wilson was probably in the kitchen fussing over dinner or pretending to fuss over dinner while he actually stewed about how House never really appreciated how much he did for him or something else overdramatic like that.

Well, maybe putting away some of the clothes wouldn't hurt.

Sighing, realizing that he was giving in (although nobody would ever have to know about it) he finished putting on his pyjamas. Deciding that it probably wouldn't take too much time, he picked up the box of wire hangers (rolling his eyes at the memory of Wilson complaining about how wire hangers left creases or something like that) and plopped them next to the half-open closet.

Leaning his cane against the nearest wall, he limped back and forth between his bed, dejectedly picking shirts from off of the mattress and picking a hanger, sliding the shirt onto it, and placing it in the closet. He cursed Wilson's ability to make him do chores, and cursed Lucas for soaking everything in their house, and he cursed Chase just because he felt like it.

By the time he had grabbed the last shirt and hung it where it belonged, his thigh was acting up again. He rubbed it absently through his thin pants, the coolness of the fabric soothing his stressed muscle, and glared at the final shirt he'd put away. He turned around and barely had time to register that he'd trodden on his fallen cane before it slid out from underneath him.

He fell backwards and into the closet. He reached out in panic to grab something--anything--and his left hand clutched at a shirt while his right hand managed to grab the clothes bar. The shirt ripped off of the hanger and fluttered to the ground while the wire hanger spun around the bar one-two-three times before half finishing a fourth revolution, got tired, swung the other way for a second, then settled, mocking him with its nakedness.

His right arm, strong from supporting most of his weight on the cane, was the only thing stopping him from falling flat on his ass, and judging by the sudden searing heat that shot through his shoulder, he'd pulled a muscle.

Sighing, he planted his feet on the ground properly and stood.

"You all right in there?" Wilson called from somewhere inside the loft--it sounded like he was in the kitchen--and House gritted his teeth. He must've yelled out, although he couldn't remember doing it.

"I just tripped," he explained loudly, bending over to pick up the shirt he'd torn off of the hanger. He grudgingly put it back where it belonged, his thigh screaming at him. Naturally, the foot that had stepped on his cane had been his right, so it had been the one that flung up in the air and stretched out the already-taxed muscle.

He rubbed it, made a promise to let Wilson know just how dangerous doing chores could be, and stepped out of the closet.

Only to step on the edge of the box of hangers. There were only a few left, but they flung at his face and he tripped over his own feet. He fell backwards, arms flailing, and feet trying to keep grounded. His right foot slammed down onto the ground, instinctually trying to find balance, and onto a bent wire hanger.

It tore into his foot and this time when he yelled, he was aware of doing it. He grabbed his foot, hopping awkwardly on his left, and his back hit the closet door so that it banged, loudly, against the wall.

"SON OF A BITCH!" he shouted, out of pain or anger (he wasn't sure which) and stared at the blood that dripped across the bottom of his foot. It was bright red, almost cartoon-like, and of course, just on the ball of his foot. The blood made it difficult to see the shape of the cut or how deep it was, but he doubted he needed stitches. Still, foot wounds became infected easily, so he knew he should probably take care of it.

"House?" came Wilson's rushed, hurried voice from the doorway, and House looked up at him. Wilson's eyes went from the bed (which only had his pants on it) and then to the closet. "Were you putting away your clothes?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you for asking," he grumbled, his shoulder hot from a strained muscle, his foot throbbing with the cut and warm with blood, and his thigh happily chirping at him just so he wouldn't forget that he'd had an infarction.

Wilson raised his eyebrows and it looked like he was about to ask, but thought better of it. Despite complaining about it, he knew that had Wilson actually shown concern he probably would've bitched at him.

His cane was on its side, looking totally innocent although it had started the whole thing, and House grabbed it.

House limped out of the room, Wilson stepping out of the doorframe to allow him to pass. He shook his head and put his hands on his hips, and House glared evilly at him, deciding to move the blame from his cane to Wilson. His jeans were a little too tight and faded from use, and his sweater looked a size or so too big. His sleeves were rolled up, and the loft smelled of spices. His face was gently flushed from steam, and suddenly, House couldn't blame him anymore. So he blamed Lucas and his cane for the entire thing.

"What happened?" Wilson asked gently as House started making his way to Wilson's room (well, technically, Wilson's bathroom.)

"I tripped. No need to go Mother Hen on me," he muttered, knowing the soft expression in his brown eyes immediately. The last thing his dignity needed was Wilson fretting over a tiny cut.

Wilson scoffed, but it sounded more like he was amused than annoyed. "House, only _you_ could make household chores feasibly dangerous."

"Well, this is what happens when I put away my clothes. Hence, the cardboard boxes. Now run along and play mother somewhere else--preferably the kitchen. I'm gonna need some grub in a minute," he dismissed, his shoulder tightening uncomfortably as he put weight on it. His right foot was lifted off of the ground, so his left leg and right arm were the only things keeping him upright. It wasn't difficult, really--he remembered limping like this when he first started using the cane. It taken awhile to start trusting his thigh to take weight again.

Wilson tutted and walked off towards the kitchen. "Try not to bleed all over my bathroom," he ordered.

"'Try not to bleed on my bathroom,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

"I heard that," Wilson called.

House rolled his eyes as he continued his journey. Wilson picked the master bedroom with the master bathroom. It made sense, since he was the one with all the hair products, but he did have the better bathtub. He was probably going to have to soak in the tub later, if not because his leg was hurting but also because of his shoulder. Knowing that he was probably dripping some blood on the floor, he scowled at Wilson's admonition and went over to the sink. He leant his cane against the wall carefully and made sure it was steady before looking away. He bent down awkwardly and pulled out the peroxide and a rag as well as some cotton balls.

Knowing that he needed to wash the foot free of blood to see how deep the cut was before administering peroxide, he stood back and lifted his leg, placing his right foot on the counter. He put the bottle on the sink beside him, next to the cotton balls, and turned on the sink. His leg protested at the awkward angle, but no more than it usually did, and he sighed. It didn't matter where he was--if he sat on the toilet, he was going to have to cross it over his leg anyway, but then he'd also have to sit on the hard porcelain, and not to mention bend over to pluck the peroxide off of the floor, or twist awkwardly to take it off of the basin behind him.

He turned on the hot water, inwardly muttering about chores and Lucas and canes and how annoying a combination of all three were. He thought about Wilson, probably conflicted with feelings of righteous anger towards Cuddy as well as guilt over the loft, and probably concern towards House as well as annoyance. It was probably why he was cooking. Back in the days of Wilson's marriages, whenever he'd been extremely irritated he'd come over to House's place and cook for him. When he was angry and cooking, he didn't hum. House imagined Wilson puttering away over the stove, lips resolutely shut, and definitely not humming.

Sighing, he ran the washcloth under the nearly-hot water and then wiped away the blood, peering at the cut. It was only about an inch and half long and somewhat jagged. It was pretty shallow--just deep enough to bleed. He hadn't been expecting it to be a noteworthy wound. He was probably going to have to bandage it, though, to prevent infection.

He glanced at his reflection, saw the small cut on his cheekbone, and shook his head, reaching for the bottle of peroxide. It was only a scratch, but he knew Wilson's mind always filled with all the worst-case-scenarios and all the horrible could-have-beens, so he really couldn't blame him for being angry with Lucas. He should have realized Wilson would never have loosened the grip bar. He would never do anything to potentially harm House--even the one time he'd filed halfway through his cane, he'd been hovering all day, so in case he fell somewhere potentially dangerous he could have helped. Oh, Wilson would say he did it so he could gloat, and maybe that was half true, but he'd wanted to be there in order to help him if possible.

He soaked the cotton with peroxide and focused on the wound, absentmindedly putting the peroxide bottle down. It hit the edge of the sink and began to fall. House instinctively reached forward to catch it but missed, overbalanced on his left leg so that his right leg slipped off of the sink and he knew what was going to happen in the split second before it did. His heart rammed into his throat in panic and he slipped on either the peroxide-soaked floor or the slick bottle--it didn't really matter--and he smacked his face against the edge of the sink as he fell.

Or at least, he thought he hit his head on the sink. He could have hit it on the floor. What he knew were quick images that flashed by at an awkward pace. Peroxide, click, sink, black. His mind filled in the blanks when his eyes fluttered open.

Everything was white and smelled of spices. For a crazy moment he thought he was in the hospital, but the bright light above his head lessened and the silhouette turned out to be Wilson, who seemed to be speaking in a different language.

For a minute, he thought it was funny. He could see himself slipping on the peroxide and sliding around the bathroom floor, shouting, until he hit his head on the sink and knocked himself out. It could be funny in a slapstick comedy with Jim Carey, but then it felt like someone was shoving a weed-whacker through his temple and making a mess of his brains. He let out a groan and felt bile rise in his throat, and either he started puking or Wilson somehow knew he was about to, because the next minute he was being pushed on his side, spewing vomit into the red linoleum of the bathroom. He remembered that the linoleum wasn't red, and figured that it must've been blood.

". . . for a concussion," Wilson muttered, voice suddenly loud and clear, and House coughed, spitting the remnants of puke out of his mouth.

"I'm fine," he muttered, trying to push himself onto his feet, but Wilson grabbed him and helped him stand. House tried to push him away, eyes wet with tears that he didn't remember crying, but Wilson was adamant.

He leaned against Wilson as he led him to the toilet, and he registered the clink of him putting down the toilet seat before he sat. He swayed drunkenly and Wilson held onto both of his shoulders, and he wondered if it was normal for his mouth to feel wooden. He thought about George Washington and chuckled at the image of a short old man with wooden teeth.

He realized he wasn't tasting wood but pennies, and after that he felt something warm trickling down his face and into his mouth. He was tasting his own blood.

It felt like someone was hammering a nail somewhere in his head--he couldn't really pinpoint where--and he groaned.

"Close your eyes," Wilson ordered in his best doctor voice, and he obeyed. He felt Wilson's fingers at his jugular, presumably taking his pulse, and after what seemed like forever, he told him to open his eyes.

His leg complained; his feet half-throbbed; his shoulder sort of burned; his head screamed. He glanced over at his cane, still against the wall, and Wilson grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to lock.

For the first time, he saw that Wilson had tears streaming down his face. He would've felt a little touched or smug, but then his stomach lurched again when he tasted his blood on his tongue.

Wilson left the bathroom, but came back a few seconds later. He was over at the sink and House watched him fuss for a minute, confused. The lights were a bit too bright at the moment, and it almost felt like he had a hangover. Wilson knelt in front of House a few moments later with a warm rag, and he started wiping his face.

House's brain started working properly again, and suddenly he let out a grunt. "I can do that myself," he snapped, reaching for Wilson's wrist, but Wilson quickly smacked it away. "Wilson--"

"Shut up," he ordered in a thick voice, and he sniffed.

House felt something tighten in his chest area and he looked downwards. Staring into his tear-filled eyes was too much for him to handle at the moment. The rag felt warm and soothing against his face, and the pain in his head was starting to dull. It wasn't gone, by any means, but it had stopped feeling sharp and was now more of a throb.

Wilson was gentle as he washed his face, and dunked the rag in a bowl of water House just realized was there. Wilson must've gotten it when he left the bathroom. He wiped House's face again, paying careful attention to his forehead.

"I thought you were dead, asshole," Wilson snapped, and his voice cracked on the insult.

House scoffed. "Yeah, well, I didn't so--" He moved to stand, but Wilson grabbed both of his shoulders and forced him to sit. "Wilson--"

"Don't," he warned, and swallowed thickly.

House flinched when Wilson squeezed his hurt shoulder, but didn't say anything when Wilson returned to wiping his face.

The image of House slipping around in a slapstick comedy replaced itself with Wilson in the kitchen, steam rising to his face and spices mixing in with sweat and cologne, the sudden shout and clanging noises echoing around the apartment. Wilson had probably stopped and called; "Trying to kill yourself today?" or something else sarcastic. When House hadn't replied, he probably hurried to the bathroom to see House lying still on the floor, blood underneath his head, and suddenly, it wasn't so funny.

Although House was sure that his face was clean of blood and that wound wasn't bleeding anymore (although it still could be--head wounds bled a lot) Wilson kept washing his face, the water steadily and somewhat quickly cooling.

Wilson's chin was wobbling and his jaw was clenched, but tears still ran down his face silently. House knew he was trying not to cry, and figured his mind was still going over all the things that could have happened. He was probably blaming himself in some way--thinking that he should've joined him in the bathroom instead of going back to the kitchen, or wondering what could've happened if he hadn't been there--and for the first time, House's stomach lurched slightly in fear.

It was just a stupid knock on the head, but he knew that a million other things could have happened. House wasn't a man to sit and worry about how things could have gone, but he knew Wilson was, and for a moment, he let his mind drift down that road. He could have died.

He looked at his leg and pressed his palm against his scar, if only to stop thinking those sorts of things.

"You were putting your foot on my sink," Wilson murmured, and House glanced at the sink in question. "You put it up there to clean your cut, and you tripped."

_Brilliant deduction, Wilson,_ House snarked in his mind, but wisely kept his mouth shut. For some reason, he felt like he was being reprimanded. He remembered all the times his mother had stared at the floor and told him that she wasn't angry, just disappointed, and realized the feeling that swelled in his chest then was not dissimilar to what he felt now.

"You've been limping more since Lucas tripped you," Wilson said, his voice tinged with something like anger.

Actually, his leg had been bothered him since he fell in the tub because of the grip bar, but he wasn't going to correct him. Wilson was blaming this on Lucas, and House shook his head. House was the asshole who blamed everything on everyone else; not Wilson. "I'm fine," he stated firmly.

Wilson shook his head, then put the rag in the bowl. "He shouldn't have done that."

"Wilson, I tripped. Okay? It's not the first time. I'm fine. Don't be so dramatic. It's not his fault I hit my head, and it's not yours either."

Wilson looked like he might argue, but instead he just nodded stiffly and sniffed discreetly. He went over to the sink and opened the cupboard underneath, pulling out a second bottle of peroxide. The first bottle was still rolling around on the floor.

House moved to stand, but Wilson was forcing him back down on the toilet again, and House could have fought him off, but didn't. When he stood it felt as thought the room had shifted and grown around him, so he obeyed without complaining. Head injury, vertigo, nausea--he probably had a concussion, if only a slight one. Wilson hadn't commented on his pupil dilation, so it probably wasn't too bad.

Wilson started on House's foot, but House had the suspicion he only did that so he could bow his head and hide the fact he was still half-crying. He was sure that under different circumstances he might have noticed the sting, but so much of his body ached at that point that he didn't feel anything.

He heard hitched breath and saw Wilson's chest heave, but did nothing. Comforting others was not part of his nature. It always made him feel uncomfortable, and whenever he attempted it, he always said something stupid to make things worse. Stacy had learned that when she was having a bad day to either avoid him or go find someone else. He'd been grateful for that. It was difficult at the moment though, since he knew Wilson wasn't going anywhere. Wilson normally left him alone when he was upset (probably for the same reasons Stacy had), but he wasn't going to now since he was . . . busy.

The scent of spice and sweat and steam filled his nostrils, and he swallowed the thickness in his throat. He wasn't sure if he could actually smell the peroxide, or if that was imagined. His blood rushed past his ears, and his head throbbed.

"So, what are you cooking?" he asked, if only to break the awkward silence. His voice was quieter than he had intended, and he looked away from Wilson's bowed head. He stared at the sink and saw blood smudged down it, and some blood on the linoleum mixed with puke. There wasn't as much blood as he'd thought there was when he'd been lying beside it.

"Chicken," he answered curtly.

House nodded although he knew Wilson couldn't see it.

The silence grew again, as awkward as before, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. His shoulder burned, and he reached up, grabbing it. He massaged it with his palm, and Wilson finally looked up at him. He glanced at the fact House was massaging his own shoulder, but said nothing. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet.

"I can't believe you actually put your clothes away," Wilson said finally, a humourless chuckle passing his lips right before he sniffed.

House couldn't think of anything to say, so he just massaged his shoulder. Wilson looked about ready to ask about it, but then he closed his mouth and soaked another cotton ball with peroxide. He felt like a little kid again, all scraped up after playing a bit too rough, or getting into yet another fight. It was demeaning, sitting on the toilet in Wilson's bathroom with a man ten years younger taking care of him.

"You don't have to do this," House grumbled. Wilson huffed lightly and pursed his lips together, then moved the soaked cotton towards his forehead. House grabbed his wrist with one hand and glared at him. "I mean it. I'm not a little kid."

Wilson jerked his hand free. "Stop acting like one, then," he snapped.

Seeing Wilson stern and a little upset was better than seeing him sniffle and act concerned, so House scoffed and rolled his eyes. He allowed Wilson to press the cotton ball to his wound, and he hissed at the sting. This close, House could see Wilson's level of concentration. He knew the clinical look of indifference was forced. Even if he hadn't known him, he would've known. He wasn't crying anymore, but his cheeks were wet and his eyes were red and puffy.

For a moment, he considered holding Wilson's face and wiping away the tears, but then he balked at the idea. He tried to think of something to make Wilson feel better, but anything he thought of sounded sappy and awkward. Not for the first time in his life, he was glad that they didn't talk about things, because that meant they could just pretend this didn't happen.

"It's going to bruise," Wilson said calmly, and brushed the cotton across the cut again. "You might have a concussion," he added, his voice quieter as he leaned closer, eyes focused entirely on the cut. He was kneeling in between his legs, and he focused on the scent of spices and Wilson.

For no reason at all, House remembered what it was like right after Stacy left, and Wilson had been there to take care of him. He remembered how demeaning and embarrassing it had been, having his best friend massage his leg and ignore the insults he threw his way. He remembered having to have Wilson wash him in the tub because he couldn't or wouldn't do it himself. On a few occasions, House had urinated or defecated on himself, and Wilson had taken care of it, without complaining. They had fought and Wilson had insulted him a few times, but whenever he needed him, he'd been right there. House had been stripped of all independence, and this was only serving to remind him of how worthless he'd felt.

"Dammit, Wilson, just knock it off," he growled and pushed Wilson away from him and moved to stand, but Wilson literally manhandled him onto the toilet.

When House moved to push him away again, Wilson grabbed his jaw and held his head still. "House, stop it," he snapped, brown eyes locking on his. "I _need_ to do this," he stated, squeezing his jaw so that he couldn't move.

House almost told him to back off and that no, he didn't need to do anything, and he could do it himself, but then he realized what he meant. He scoffed and pulled away, but didn't stand. Wilson grabbed another cotton ball and doused it before brushing it across his forehead. "This isn't your fault," House informed.

Wilson sighed. "Had I never bought the loft, things would not have escalated like this," he countered.

"So, what? I got banged up a little and now you're going to somehow find a way where it's your fault?"

Wilson shook his head, eyes determinedly on the wound. "You could have died and I--"

"I'm _not_ dead. Lucas and Cuddy are assholes, they deserved what they got, and I'm just fine. So quit your whining already. If I wanted to listen to people degrade themselves and mope, I'd sit at the emo kids' table at the high school, all right?"

Wilson smiled thinly and something warm filled House's chest at the sight of it. He quickly looked away and massaged his shoulder with one hand.

"What happened to your arm?" Wilson asked a moment later, dropping the cotton ball and holding House's chin, turning his head right and then left.

House kept his eyes lowered. "Strained it," he explained shortly.

Without asking permission (knowing that he wouldn't have gotten it) Wilson pushed House's hand aside and replaced it with his own, digging into it. It hurt in that nearly good way that most massages did, and he groaned against his will. Wilson made a noise House assumed was smug, but he didn't want to look at his face at the moment.

He continued to stare downwards at nothing in particular, feeling the strong dip and grind of his friend's palm against his sore muscle, until he felt cool air on his forehead over the cut. He finally looked up, head swimming randomly, to see Wilson's lips puckered, as if getting ready for a kiss. For a moment he thought Wilson was going to kiss him like his mother used to, but then when he leaned forward all he did was let out a cool stream of air.

It felt nice, and that mixed with the one-handed massage almost took his mind off of the pain. He would probably need a long, hot soak and more Ibuprofen than usual, but at the moment, he felt all right. Not fantastic by any means, but all right.

Wilson's face was completely nonchalant, as if he wasn't doing anything strange. Finally, House swallowed and asked; "What are you doing?" He tried to tell himself he wasn't staring at Wilson's pink, puckered lips.

Wilson didn't blush. He didn't even glance at House. "My mother used to do this," he explained, and continued.

This close, House could see the wetness under his eyes and the red puffiness crying had caused. His lips were moist and his nose had some snot, as most people's did when crying. His hair was a mess and his face was blotched. It wasn't like in the movies or romance novels, where crying people somehow looked beautiful and effervescent; as if tears magically filled them with a loving glow of kindness or some other such crap. Wilson had thought he had died, and he'd cried. House probably would've done the same.

"My mother used to kiss me," he stated with a shrug.

Wilson stopped blowing for a second and his eyes met House's awkwardly. House's heart seemed to jump into his throat for no reason at all. Wilson cleared his throat and wet his bottom lip before sidling closer. He puckered his lips again and began to blow, but for some reason it felt different this time. More intimate.

"Kissing someone better doesn't actually do anything," Wilson whispered, voice rasping.

"It always worked for me," he retaliated and told himself he was not trying to convince Wilson to kiss him.

"Still doesn't do anything."

House shifted on the toilet seat. "What, and blowing me does?"

"Blowing _on_ you," Wilson corrected with a brief meeting of eyes, "is cooling, and soothes the cut."

He supposed that made sense, but his stomach still swooped when Wilson continued doing just that. The breath was gentle and cool, and his lips looked pink and soft. Maybe it was just because House was still loopy from the head injury, but he thought about leaning up and catching Wilson's mouth with his own. He didn't though, and contented himself with watching his mouth, feeling the cool air on his forehead, and allowing Wilson to dig into his shoulder.

Wilson glanced down at a point on House's face that was slightly above his chin and stopped blowing for a brief second, although his mouth still made a pretty little O. His hand stopped massaging House's shoulder and lightly traced his temple as if brushing away nonexistent hair. House scooted forward on the toilet slightly, his legs spread so that Wilson was nestled between them, and their chests almost touched.

House saw Wilson's Adam's apple bob and heard a slight intake of breath, but then he continued breathing cool air over his forehead. House touched Wilson's sweater with the tips of his fingers and felt his breath catch.

Recalling the few months after Stacy left had always been painful for House, but every now and then he'd remember a brief flash of Wilson lying in bed beside him, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead. Wilson had always thought House was too out of it to realize what was going on, or had assumed he was asleep, but he wasn't always.

He remembered one time when Wilson had been undressing House because he'd been in too much pain to do it himself, and when his nose had been level with House's crotch, he'd said; "Well, since you're down there," in an attempt to make a joke, and Wilson had looked at him with what looked like want in his eyes, as if he'd been contemplating it.

He remembered wanting to grab Wilson and kiss him until they were both spent and breathless, if only to feel what it was like to have someone against him again. And possibly because he was out of his mind with pain, depression, and drugs.

He felt the cool air on his forehead and half-grabbed at the front of Wilson's sweater.

He felt something soft and warm against his forehead, and realized a second later that Wilson had kissed the cut. House leaned forward, trying to nonverbally tell him to do it again. He did, but this time he pressed his lips against his head more firmly and for a second longer. House's eyes fluttered closed and Wilson pressed a kiss on his eyebrow, then his eyelid. It was gentle and he almost didn't feel it at all, and then his lips skirted over the mark on his cheekbone.

House had moved closer to Wilson, whose fingers were slipping through his short, almost-buzzed hair. He pressed another kiss to the scratch that Lucas had inadvertently given him. House clutched Wilson's sweater and brought him closer, their foreheads sliding against one another briefly. Their noses brushed, and he could feel Wilson's breath on his mouth, hot and shallow.

He barely heard Wilson swallow and when he opened his eyes a slit, he saw that with the tiniest push forward, they could be kissing properly. A line would definitely be crossed, and House suddenly feared what that meant.

Wilson pulled away and House followed for a second. Wilson sought House's eyes and found them. He could see his reflection in his irises, and knew what Wilson was asking when he raised both of his eyebrows. House nodded so slightly he didn't know if Wilson had seen it, but he must've because one side of his mouth curled up in a smile.

Their lips brushed, as if the kiss would hurt if not done properly. In a different life, time, or moment, House might have panicked. Maybe he should've. But he didn't. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with fear, and he realized it was something that hadn't happened when he'd kissed Cuddy. When he'd hallucinated their night together.

Their lips nudged again and House closed his eyes, pushing against Wilson's mouth slightly. Maybe this was some sort of apology, or maybe Wilson was kissing him because in that brief second that probably lasted a lifetime when he'd thought House was dead, he'd had an epiphany. Maybe there wasn't a reason as to why.

Someone flicked a tongue (House wasn't sure who--his mind was reeling) and they both opened their mouths. The tilt of their heads and slow stroke of their tongues was gentle and tentative, and House wondered if he was dreaming. Maybe he was still out cold on the bathroom floor, imagining the taste of Wilson and feel of him, too.

It was so quiet it was almost deafening and surreal. Music didn't swell like it did in the movies, and they weren't breathing heavily or whimpering. The stillness and silence only amplified his heartbeat, pounding in his chest and ears and head, and he could almost hear his fingers sliding across Wilson's thick sweater. He could almost hear their mouths sliding and their tongues touching, their lips separating as they closed and touched before repeating the process over again.

Just as the kiss started deepening, Wilson put his hand on House's chest and pulled away. "House," he warned.

House felt his throat close up and his heart stop. "Right. Of course." He didn't apologize.

"The chicken," he reminded, a small, amused smile forming at his mouth.

The scent of spices and steam hit him full force again, and he remembered dinner with a small growling in his tummy. "Oh," he breathed, brain a little slow on the uptake. Then again, that was what happened when someone had a concussion.

Maybe it was because Wilson thought House hadn't understood, but he leaned forward and kissed him again, with only the briefest of hesitations right before their mouths met.

"You should probably have a hot soak while I finish cooking," he suggested when he pulled away, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "We can try this again afterwards."

House nodded, his heart beating fleetingly in his chest.

"And I should probably clean up the mess you made," Wilson realized with his brows furrowed.

"Sure, blame me," he grumbled good-naturedly.

Wilson shook his head briefly and stood up, running his hand over House's head as he did so. It was so distractedly boyfriendish and tender it seemed almost habitual; as if he had done it a thousand times before. House looked up at him, foot still sore, leg stiff, and forehead stinging. His shoulder felt better, at least, and when he looked into Wilson's eyes, he smiled.

"You really ought to get rid of the wire hangers," Wilson muttered as he turned towards the mess of dried blood and puke on the linoleum. "They leave creases in your clothes."

* * *

A/N--Here comes the embarrassing part. The whole part with House tripping on his cane in the closet all the way to knocking himself out on the bathroom counter actually happened to me. Instead of a cane and an infarction, though, I had a broom and clumsiness. I was home alone and too embarrassed to tell anybody and had to get it off of my chest somehow.


End file.
